


Friends Reunited

by KathyG



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Concerned Mycroft, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Estrangement, Gen, No Slash, One Shot, concerned Mrs. Hudson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG
Summary: In this story that’s set in “The Lying Detective,” Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft are worried about the estrangement between John and Sherlock.  Each is determined to bring the two friends back together, to reunite them.  The question is, how?





	Friends Reunited

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I owe a debt to Ariane DeVere for transcribing all of the episode transcripts; I was able to draw from “The Lying Detective” transcript to create part of the dialogue. I also thank besleybean from the [BBC Sherlock Fan Forum](http://sherlock.boardhost.com/index.php) for beta-reading and Brit-picking my story!

Mrs. Hudson leaned against the kitchen wall and sighed. She had just finished vacuuming her floor, and she still had to dust the counter and shelves. Right now, though, she could not stop worrying about Sherlock and John. It had been weeks since John had returned to Baker Street, and it was clear that he had made the decision to cut Sherlock out of his life. Possibly for good. 

_This is not good,_ she thought, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest. As she thought, her back pressed against the wall’s whitish wallpaper, decorated with roses. Her air conditioner softly hummed in the background. _This is not good for either of them! It’s not good for Sherlock, because he loves John, and this estrangement between them is really bringing him down. Now he’s taking drugs again! And though John’s not aware of it, it’s not good for him, either. Who knows what John’s doing to himself, cooped up alone in that flat of his, with not even his own daughter to keep him company? I wish I knew!_

Mrs. Hudson sighed again. It wasn’t only Sherlock that John was cutting himself off from. She had received word that except for Molly, who was looking after Rosie in John’s stead, the former army doctor had cut all of his friends out of his life. Except to go to work, he had not left his flat since soon after Mary’s funeral, when he had visited her grave. Until recently, he had been on bereavement leave, and during that time, he had not left the flat at all. 

_I’ve got to do something about this,_ she thought. _This can’t go on! John needs his friends, and he and Sherlock need each other. Somehow, I’ve got to figure out a way to bring them back together._

She picked up the phone to ring Molly. More than anyone else at present, Molly and Mycroft were able to keep up with what John was doing. Once Molly had brought Mrs. Hudson up to date, it would be easier for her to decide what to do not just about Sherlock, but about John, too. If necessary, she would ask Mycroft for help, as well. 

**XXXXXXX**

Mycroft leaned against the wall of his basement office at the Diogenes Club, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingertips as he watched the CCTV of John’s bedroom. He had had the CCTV monitor brought into his office that morning, so that he could keep up with John’s doings that day, as he worked. He was wearing a formal black suit and a bow tie, with his watch in his left waistcoat pocket; he was about to go to a formal reception at MI6 headquarters. As he watched, the ex-army doctor lay on his bed in the darkened bedroom, fidgeting, clearly unable to sleep. He had not bothered to change into his pyjamas before going to bed. Mycroft had been monitoring both Sherlock and John ever since Mary’s death, and things were only growing progressively worse for them both. He was not pleased with what was going on with his brother _or_ with John, and he was even less pleased with the estrangement between the two of them. 

_This will not do,_ he thought, shaking his head. He took his seat behind his desk and leaned back, drumming his fingers on his light brown desk. _Dr. Watson has been cutting my brother out of his life for weeks now! And not just Sherlock, either, but everyone!_ Mycroft laid his cigarette in his ashtray. _Everybody but Molly, that is, and if it wasn’t for Rosie, he would probably cut even Molly out as well. Molly’s been looking after Rosie because Dr. Watson’s in no shape to. Until he returned to work a few days ago, he’s been staying cooped up in his flat all this time; he’s been drinking excessively, just as he did when he thought Sherlock was dead; and he’s been talking to a woman that’s not even there anymore. His deceased wife. And Sherlock…I don’t even like to think about the state_ he _is in!_

Mycroft glanced down at his mobile phone, which lay on his desk, and turned back toward the CCTV monitor, which was still on. “Sorry, Dr. Watson, but this is for your good,” he said aloud. “You will not welcome my ringing you about Sherlock, least of all at this time of night, but you’ll thank me when it’s over.” 

He picked up his phone and rang John’s mobile-phone number, keeping an eye on the CCTV as he did so, but the retired army doctor did not answer. As Mycroft’s phone continued to ring, on the CCTV monitor, John sat perched on the end of his bed and looked down at his mobile phone. Suddenly, he looked up at the open entrance into Rosie’s bedroom. It was clear to Mycroft that he was seeing and hearing somebody that Mycroft could not see or hear. 

“It’s Mycroft,” he said. A moment later, he added, “Of _course_ , it’s about Sherlock. _Everything’s_ about Sherlock.” After twelve rings, Mycroft hung up. 

_I will try again, once I’m at the reception. He will not be able to ignore me indefinitely,_ he thought. _First, though, once I’m there, I’ve got to ring the prime minister._ Out loud, he said to the screen on his mobile phone in a low voice, “Yes, I _am_ ringing you about Sherlock; you are right about that. But it’s not only about Sherlock, Dr. Watson, not this time. I will not tell you so, but it is also about you. I’ve been watching you _and_ Sherlock both over these past weeks, and it’s become clear to me that you have been drinking excessively and isolating yourself and speaking with an imaginary Mary, as you are doing again now. And others are having to look after your daughter in your stead. If all of that is not proof that you need help, I don’t know what is, but I will _not_ allow you to keep isolating yourself from Sherlock and your other friends like this.” 

Mycroft fully intended to keep ringing John’s number over and over again, until the ex-army doctor gave in and answered. In the meantime, though, he had a reception to attend. He inserted his phone into his right waistcoat pocket, put his cigarette out, and left the basement. 

**XXXXXXX**

A half-hour later, at the formal reception, Mycroft was speaking with the prime minister on his mobile phone. He was surrounded by others dressed just as fancily as he was, all of whom were drinking, nibbling on finger foods, and chatting. 

Suddenly, a servant approached him; with a sigh, Mycroft said into the phone, “Please excuse me for a minute.” He held the phone away from his ear and looked at the man. “What is it, Herbert?” 

“Mr. Thompson wishes to speak with you. It’s urgent.” He nodded toward the door. “He’s waiting for you out in the hall.” 

Grimacing, Mycroft held the phone back up to his ear. “Please excuse me, sir; something has come up. I will ring you back shortly.” He hung up and entered the hall, holding his phone out as he did so. 

“For G__’s sake, I was talking to the prime minister,” he said, annoyed. 

Thompson said a little nervously, “I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. It’s your brother.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. “He’s left his flat.” 

“Was it on fire?” Mycroft asked facetiously. 

Thompson shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, sir, but at present, he is simply wandering the streets. We’re monitoring him now.” 

Mycroft sighed. “Thank you.” 

Nodding, Thompson left, and Mycroft left for the surveillance room. He would try again to ring John once he was down there, but first, he wanted to see what Sherlock was doing. 

**XXXXXXX**

Mrs. Hudson sat in front of her television set in her cosy living room. Try as she did, she was unable to concentrate on what was on the telly; she was too worried about Sherlock. 

_Sherlock is taking drugs again; I know it,_ she thought. _Something has got to be done! If only he and John were still on speaking terms, I could ask John to look after him._

A few moments later, she picked up the remote control and turned the telly off. It was no use keeping it on; she couldn’t concentrate on it anyway. _And it’s not just Sherlock, either; something’s also got to be done about John! I’m so worried about both of them. This can’t continue; it just can’t._ She shook her head. _I’ve already spoken to Molly, but she can’t tell me much. Tomorrow, I’m going to ring Mycroft._

**XXXXXXX**

In the surveillance room, with a sigh, Mycroft removed his mobile phone from his black waistcoat pocket and rang John’s number again. He and Lady Smallwood had been watching Sherlock wandering the streets of London on CCTV for the last several minutes, and he did not like what he was seeing; now, Mycroft was determined to bring John back into the picture. _You may as well answer, Dr. Watson, because I’m going to keep ringing you until you do._

He pressed the speed-dial number that he had for John’s phone number, held it to his ear, and waited while it rang. This time, to Mycroft’s relief, John picked up after several rings, but the doctor’s voice sounded less than happy. 

“I’m trying to sleep,” John said quietly and tetchily. “Can you stop ringing my d___ phone?” 

“Sherlock has left his flat for the first time in a week, so I’m having him tracked,” Mycroft told him. 

“Nice. It’s very touching how you can hijack the machinery of the state to look after your own family,” John answered, sounding cross. “Can I go to sleep now?” 

_You haven’t_ been _sleeping, Dr. Watson, so don’t give me that,_ Mycroft thought, with a frown. Out loud, he said sternly, “Sherlock gone rogue is a legitimate security concern. The fact that I’m his brother changes absolutely nothing. It didn’t the last time, and I assure you it won’t with…” He stopped himself and paused for a long moment; he had almost said too much. Eventually, he finished, “…with Sherlock.” 

“Sorry, what?” John’s voice sounded puzzled. 

“Please phone me if he gets in contact,” Mycroft said. “Thank you.” After a moment, on the other end, John disconnected the call. 

Lady Smallwood turned to Mycroft. “Do you still speak to Sherrinford?” 

“I get regular updates,” Mycroft said. 

“And?” 

That time, Mycroft put his phone into his trouser pocket. “Sherrinford is secure.” He walked away from Lady Smallwood and left the surveillance room. As concerned as he was about Sherlock and John, he had a formal reception to return to, and he still had to ring the prime minister back. He wasn’t at all confident that Sherlock would contact John at that point, but at least, after all those weeks, he had finally made contact with the doctor. He had no intention of allowing John to retreat back into himself, or to allow his brother to destroy himself. 

**XXXXXXX**

The next morning, in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson looked at the text on her mobile phone. She had rung Molly the day before, but the pathologist had had little to relate about John this time. Afterward, Mrs. Hudson had left a message on Mycroft’s phone, asking him to bring her up to date about John, and he had rung her just minutes before, to tell her that John was scheduled to see a therapist in Camden at lunchtime, that day. He had followed up his phone call with a text to her mobile phone, which contained the therapist’s address. Apparently, the therapist’s office, which was located in her house, was within biking distance of the clinic John worked at. 

_‘Thank you,’_ Mrs. Hudson texted him back. 

His return text arrived within a minute. _‘You’re welcome.’_

Mrs. Hudson typed and sent one more text. _‘I may need your help at noon, Mycroft. I’ve got to take Sherlock to see John when he’s at his session.’_

The return text appeared on her screen. _‘Let me know what you need, when you’re ready.’_

Mrs. Hudson typed a return text. _‘I’ll ring you when it’s time.’_

She laid her phone down on the kitchen table and sighed. “Sherlock, John, I have just _got_ to get you two back together,” she told herself. “You’ve been apart for too long, already.” 

Squaring her shoulders, she left her flat. Now she had some preparations to make, and then it would be time to go upstairs and confront Sherlock; she was determined to take him to see John while the latter was at his therapy session. If necessary, she would use Sherlock’s own pistol and his handcuffs to compel him to follow her orders. Before then, she would ring Mycroft, to tell him what she needed. 

**XXXXXXX**

Hours later, in Sherlock’s flat, Mycroft glanced down at his pocket watch. Night had fallen, and the lamps shed a soft light throughout the living room. Sherlock, he knew, was in the hospital, and John was there with him. When Mr. Hudson had rung him, she had requested his assistance in getting Sherlock to John; she was determined to run the red lights, if necessary, to get him there in time. Mycroft had agreed to do that; during their phone call, Mrs. Hudson had complained about the estrangement between Sherlock and John, and Mycroft had agreed with her that something had to be done about that, and would be. He had followed through with his promise to her when Mrs. Hudson had arrived at the therapist’s office in Camden during John’s session, after speeding all the way to Camden, where John had been seeing his new therapist, with a handcuffed Sherlock locked in the boot of her Aston Martin. Mycroft had dealt over the phone with the constables who had chased Mrs. Hudson en-route to the therapist office, so that she wouldn’t get an ASBO. 

Much had happened since then, and now Sherlock was lying in a hospital bed, unconscious. Mycroft and a team of agents had arrived at Sherlock’s flat minutes before, to search it; he had not yet had a chance to speak with Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft’s driver had just phoned him with the news that he had arrived at the hospital, and so now, it was time to ring the retired army doctor; fortunately, Mycroft had acquired Sherlock’s hospital room number. On Mycroft’s orders, a couple of the agents had hung a string across the living-room entrance and attached it to the back of the door. 

Mycroft glanced around at the agents who were searching Sherlock’s flat for drugs, and then punched Sherlock’s room number. 

“Hello? Ward seventy-three,” a female voice said on the other end of the phone. 

“I wish to speak with Dr. John Watson,” Mycroft said into the phone. 

The nurse’s voice sounded muffled as Mycroft listened to her speaking to John, followed by an exasperated sound that he could overhear John making. Seconds later, John said, “Hello, Mycroft.” His voice did not sound pleased. 

“There’s a car downstairs,” Mycroft told him. “It will bring you to Sherlock’s flat. I’ll be waiting for you here.” He hung up before John had a chance to respond. 

_Dr. Watson will not understand what is going on, or why I have summoned him here, but it’s for his own good that I have done so,_ he thought. _And for Sherlock’s, too._ Turning to one of his agents, he ordered, “Go downstairs and get Mrs. Hudson. I wish to speak with her, too.” Nodding, the agent left the flat and went downstairs, the steps creaking under his shoes as he descended them. 

Some minutes later, as, on Mycroft’s orders, one of the agents started taking down the string, Mycroft heard clicks and creaks on the floor as the agent re-ascended the stairs and entered the flat. By then, the British government had taken a seat in Sherlock’s leather-and-steel chair, and he had leaned his umbrella against the chair’s right arm. Before the other agent had a chance to finish removing the string, the agent whom Mycroft had sent downstairs reached the open doorway. 

“Where is she?” Mycroft asked. “Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” 

The agent who was just entering the room ducked under the string. “She’ll be up in a moment,” he told his employer. 

John appeared in the doorway then, and also ducked under the string. “Uh, uh, what are you doing?” he asked Mycroft. 

“Have you noticed the kitchen?” the latter asked John. He rose to his feet as John looked around the living room before he turned toward the kitchen. “It’s practically a meth lab. I’m trying to establish exactly what drove Sherlock off the rails.” 

_I’m also trying to determine how to bring_ you _back, Dr. Watson,_ he thought, _and I_ will _bring you back before it’s over. If this is what it takes to accomplish that feat, then this is what I will do._ Out loud, he added, “Any ideas?” 

John looked into the kitchen and at the white-gloved agents who were searching it. “Are these spooks?” Looking around the flat as the agents continued to search, he added, “Uh, are you using spooks now, to look after your family?” He turned back toward the kitchen. “Hang on—are they tidying?” 

Inserting his left hand into his trouser pocket, Mycroft said, “Sherlock is a security concern. The fact that I’m his brother changes nothing.” 

Turning, John walked further into the living room. “Yeah, you said that before.” 

Standing near the fireplace, Mycroft commented, “Why fixate on Culverton Smith? He’s had his obsessions before, of course, but this goes a bit further than setting a man trap for Father Christmas. Spending all night talking to a woman who wasn’t even there.” _As you’ve been doing, Dr. Watson,_ he added silently. 

Looking to Mycroft’s left side for a brief instant, John turned his gaze back to Mycroft and folded his arms across his chest. “Mycroft, last time, when we were on the phone…” 

“No—no—no—no, stop.” As a queasy feeling of uneasiness welled up in Mycroft’s gut, he raised a disparaging hand, turned, and walked a few steps toward Sherlock’s chair. “I detest conversation in the past tense.” 

John stepped closer to Mycroft, his arms still folded. “You said the fact that you were his brother made no difference.” 

Mycroft scratched his nose. “It doesn’t.” 

John continued, “You said it didn’t the last time, and it wouldn’t with Sherlock, so who _was_ it the last time? Who were you talking about?” 

_I said too much in that last phone call,_ Mycroft thought ruefully. Out loud, he said, “Nobody. I…misspoke.” 

John stared at him, with his arms still folded across his chest. “You’re lying.” 

“I assure you I’m not,” Mycroft said. _What have I gotten myself into?_

John continued to look at Mycroft for a moment longer, and then he smiled slightly, a stunned expression on his face, but there was no smile in his eyes. “Sherlock’s not your only brother. There’s another one, isn’t there?” 

_This has_ got _to stop!_ Mycroft thought. As he held John’s gaze, he said firmly, “No.” 

Clearly unconvinced, John chuckled and swore. “A secret brother! What, is he locked up in a tower or something?” 

Mycroft raised his head and looked down his nose at John, but before he had a chance to respond, Mrs. Hudson entered the living room, intense displeasure etching her face. 

“Mycroft Holmes! What are all these dreadful people doing in my house?!” 

**XXXXXXX**

The following day, Mycroft leaned back in his chair at the Diogenes Club and sighed. His search of Sherlock’s flat had ended badly when Mrs. Hudson had taken him to task, especially after John had found a DVD made by his late wife that had been sent to Sherlock. She had firmly ordered him and all his agents out of the flat, and when he had silently refused to do so, she had sternly ordered him to get out, calling him a reptile. 

_The only good that has come out of all this is that Sherlock is off the drugs now, and he and Dr. Watson have at last reconciled,_ Mycroft thought, drumming his fingertips on the desk. _It won’t be long now until he’s released from the hospital, and Dr. Watson has already promised to help keep an eye on him. He has finally allowed Sherlock back into his life; he is no longer cutting everybody out of it. That’s_ very _good. Dr. Watson isolated himself from everyone for too long, and that had to stop. Still, it may be some time before Mrs. Hudson ever forgives me._ He shook his head. _I did say too much when I rang Dr. Watson on the night of the reception. He now knows more than he should. I never meant to say anything about Eurus. Perhaps he will ask me no more, though. I can only hope._

He sighed. _I just wish that Sherlock hadn’t been right about Culverton Smith! Because he was, as it turned out; Culverton Smith_ is _a serial killer. He actually tried to murder Sherlock last night; thank goodness Dr. Watson got there in time to stop him._ He took a sip of brandy and turned to his paperwork. 

**XXXXXXX**

Mrs. Hudson left the hospital the next morning. She had visited Sherlock and taken him a batch of his favourite ginger nut biscuits. 

_I am_ so _proud of John!_ she thought, smiling broadly. _It was not easy for him, what he did, but he did it, and I’m proud of him. I am so glad he’s back in Sherlock’s life. In mine, as well._ She leaned against her red Aston Martin, which she had allowed John to drive to the hospital when he had rushed back there to save Sherlock when Culverton Smith had tried to suffocate him to death. _And not just Sherlock and me, either. For too long, he cut everybody out of his life, which only added to his suffering. I’m so glad he has stopped that now!_ She glanced up at the hospital. _And I am so glad that Sherlock is off the drugs now. He really frightened me while he was so high._ She opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and drove off.


End file.
